He Couldn’t Drive, So He Didn’t Score
Someone asked me tonight if I play golf. I’m in Myrtle Beach, making this a not entirely unreasonable question. I barely refrained from serving up an expletive with my ‘no’ response. While I tried to be civil, there are few things that I deplore more than chasing the birdies.
The reason for this phobia of hitting a crater-ridden ball with a club-ended stick into an unattainable hole in the ground? Once, I went on a date that revolved around actually playing golf. Okay, let’s be truthful. My date was too much of a jerk to pay for me to participate. I was merely along for the ride, to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and be suitably impressed at his prowess with golfing paraphernalia.
When we arrived at the golfing site – okay, YES, I know it’s called a ‘golf course’ – it was packed with old men lined up for a blissful Saturday morning of batting their balls around the greens. We had to wait for our cart, and we were required to time our departure from the clubhouse to give the old man crew ahead of us enough lead time for their game.
Charmingly, I tried to fill up the time with ‘wows’ and ignorant questions about exactly why a golf ball is round, and what the precise purpose of the various striking utensils is, and why we weren’t walking between holes instead of driving. At this point in my life (I was an idiotic nineteen), I thought men liked women who seemed interested in their stuff. So, I feigned it. Eighteen holes of golf takes a long time, after all.
On the drive down the fairway between the tee off and the hole, I guess I was a little too animated. The old man crew on the second hole shushed me because I was howling. Loudly. My date was driving like a maniac, a fact that was lost on them. They didn’t care about my safety. They just wanted me to shut my trap. We got through that hole in three strokes, a feat that I hear is usually decent.
On to the second hole. My date made a respectable drive off the tee, and we saddled up in the cart to go find the ball. Along the straightaway, he swerved to miss a mud hole. Not knowing that I needed to be belted into the cart, I went flying out of it and landed face first in the slime. My gorgeous date ran over me.
When I dragged my muck-covered visage out of the hole, I looked up to see him standing next to the cart, holding it up by the top. He’d turned it around so quickly that he’d almost flipped it. Such was Romeo’s concern for my welfare, a microscopic bit of charm that evaporated when he ascertained that nothing was broken. He wasn’t about to lose his money on the golf game, finishing up the remaining sixteen holes with a shrewish, mud-encrusted date.
Since that day, I have never set foot on a golf course. Don’t ask me to play, because I may agree just long enough to cream you in the noggin with a driving iron.
IF there is such a thing as a driving iron.